


47

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Birthday Sex, Fluff, M/M, Old Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 20:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12540084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: Please don't make a fussHarry begged a few weeks ago when he noticed his upcoming birthday circled on the calendar, so Hamish dutifully spread the word that he was turning forty-seven to spare him the indignity of some well-meaning person at work baking him a cake with fifty candles and setting off the smoke alarms.Now the day is here, of course Harry's slightly put out that there's no fuss.





	47

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reindeerjumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts).



_Please don't make a fuss_ Harry begged a few weeks ago when he noticed his upcoming birthday circled on the calendar, so Hamish dutifully spread the word that he was turning forty-seven to spare him the indignity of some well-meaning person at work baking him a cake with fifty candles and setting off the smoke alarms.

Now the day is here, of course Harry's slightly put out that there's no fuss.

"Go home," Hamish tells him, glancing sideways at Harry perched on the edge of his desk with an injured look on his face. "I need to finish this for Arthur tonight."

"I'll wait."

"Well, wait elsewhere. It's awfully off-putting when you just _linger_."

That perks him up a bit, a little smile creeping onto his face and lighting up his tired eyes. "When the day comes that you no longer find me a distraction, I'll call my life done and poison myself with my shoe."

"Hope you're ready for another fifty years of this world," Hamish says absently, eyes back on the screen to follow the letters of his rapid typing, and beside him Harry laughs softly and gets off the desk, walking the couple of steps to Hamish's chair and ducking to kiss him on the temple.

"Forty-seven," he says, full of fake reproach, and leaves him to it.

It's not quite an hour later when Hamish is finally done, and while he's waiting for the file to transfer to Arthur's inbox ready for the morning he checks Harry's location on his tablet tracker: still in the building, not home in London. Good.

He stops by the kitchen to pick up the hamper he ordered earlier, and heads up to their suite on the third floor. Now he's the one lingering, leaning there in the bedroom doorway for a minute just for the familiar pleasure of seeing Harry at rest: he looks softer like this when he's not on show to the world, still in his grey suit trousers but with his tie off and sleeves rolled up casually, buttons open right the way down to his sternum, engrossed in some trashy old Jackie Collins paperback.

"Happy birthday," Hamish says, completely helpless against the note of tenderness that creeps into his voice against his will, and Harry shifts onto his side on the bed to smile at him.

"It was touch and go for a while, but"--he checks his watch--"the last fourteen minutes of it look promising at least."

"You're assuming I've not been awake for twenty-seven hours."

Harry just shrugs, shamelessly ogling Hamish while he's changing into the shorts and t-shirt he likes to sleep in. "Just fall asleep with your mouth open, I'll do all the moving." That makes Hamish laugh, and he's still laughing when he swings a leg over Harry's hips and settles in for a seriously good kiss, the kind they never seem to have time for these days. It must have been forever; it seems to take Harry by surprise, though it's certainly not an unwelcome one from the way his greedy hands are roaming all over Hamish's back, wrinkling his t-shirt up to get to his skin. "We should make this company policy," Harry says shakily when they finally stop for breath, "a proper welcome home from missions."

"God, no, I don't have the energy. Fiftieth birthdays only."

"Forty-seven," Harry insists, and goes back in for another kiss. Somewhere in there he manages to drag Hamish's t-shirt over his head and struggle out of his own shirt, but otherwise there's no distraction for what seems like hours: it's just the slide and squeeze of Harry's possessive hands all over his face and back and arse, and Harry's mouth sweet and familiar against his own. It makes him think of 1982, meeting Harry in the tea room on his second day of work and how kissing like this had quickly begun to feel like a perfectly worthwhile way to waste an entire spare afternoon when they were twenty and eighteen.

Hamish entwines their fingers and pins Harry's hands on the pillows either side of his head, knowing - counting on - how much he loves that, how it always makes him wriggle desperately and laugh and swear and blush. "You're pretty like this," he whispers, half-losing the words in a hot path of kisses he's laying down Harry's pulsing neck, and Harry squirms beautifully under the touch and the words and the weight of Hamish's body covering his own.

"Please, I've not been _pretty_ in decades."

"Who's been telling you lies? Name them, I'll make them disappear." He kisses Harry's neck again, the soft place below his jaw that always makes him tremble. "Harry," he says softly, a breath of a whisper against the edge of his ear, "you'll still be pretty when you're a hundred and five and pissing yourself."

"Have you ever thought about writing poetry?" Harry asks. He'd do a much better job of sounding as sarcastic as he probably wants to were he not so trembly and breathless at the lips on his ear. "Darling"--he almost whines it, desperate and demanding, shifting under the press of Hamish's hips to nudge his hardened cock against whatever part he can reach with it--"please, get these bloody trousers off me and _do something_."

Everything about this is comfortable and practised; their days of extravagant experimentation are long behind them, and usually ended up in fits of laughter and minor injuries anyway. When Hamish slides his slicked cock inside Harry he waits there a minute, tucked deep inside him - Harry told him once in 1989 that he loved the first heady moment of feeling stretched and full almost as much as all the panting and yelling at the end, and it's part of the routine now - then begins to move, slow and steady with Harry's heart beating a thunderous pattern against his own.

"I made you a present," Hamish tells him, slipping his fingers from Harry's down to wrap around his wrists, nice and tight and insistent just the way he likes it, "but I couldn't bring it up here for safety reasons, I've not cleared it through all the reliability tests yet."

"Sounds delightfully naughty - tell me," Harry demands, so Hamish lets one wrist go and slicks his palm, wraps his fingers around Harry's cock in between their bellies and tells him in a quiet whisper, the same voice he sometimes uses when Harry's abroad on a job and needs something extra in his ear to get off in his own hand.

"The lab's perfected the fabric I told you about. Waterproof, bullet resistant, capable of displaying visual signals like a tablet. The world's first weaponised, computerised umbrella is yours."

" _Tell me_ ," Harry says again. Really his love of ridiculous fancy gadgets is bordering on a fetish now, and he comes in Hamish's hand with a glorious little noise before he's even finished going through the basic settings.

"What's in the hamper?" Harry asks when he can speak again, when he's dirty-talked Hamish to his own climax and blithely used his expensive tailored shirt like a rag to mop up the come dribbling out of him and messing up the sheets. "Champagne, strawberries? Are you finally feeling romantic in your dotage?"

Hamish leans over the edge of the bed to grab it, smacking Harry's hand away when he predictably helps himself to a pinch of naked arse cheek. "A cheese and pickle sandwich, steak McCoy's, and a pork pie. You missed dinner."

"Oh, I _love_ you," Harry says fervently, and Hamish falls asleep tucked against his side, waking up at his six o'clock alarm covered in pastry crumbs with Harry snoring happily against his shoulder.


End file.
